mostly what i write when everyone else is sleeping will be posted in Dabanol. and, if someone should choose to communicate it will establish our kinship. very quickly. i write like a wildfire when inspired. there is passion in a wildfire, which swallows reality, which is uninspired. but, there is also respect for the gravitas of the earth. as a LIbran, i am forever aspiring to achieve that balance.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Molinete
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Tumi Bolo
The sea had spoken
Waves crusted with white,
In Arabian
While it is her night
The sea is in flow
Over to land's end,
Her hand as cover
She closes her eyes
Tumi Bolo 2
Speak to me of that life,
Of banana leaves green,
Ponds floating lotuses,
The speak of the rui fish
Speak to me of daylight,
Of windows in our house,
Marble in noir et blanche,
Drone of the afternoon
Speak to me of temples,
Of the day of Jhulon,
What were you doing then
while it was getting late?
Tumi Bolo 3
Ought not you sleep? The candle
Flame burns, fire in the wall,
Fire in the white glass panes,
Luminescence within me
Ought not you sleep? When you come
Red of the night will be caught,
Spider dancing in the web,
Somnolesence within me
Tumi Bolo 4
I can hear when you don't speak
The waterfall chuckles, the
Rising wind, the solid earth
Pit in their proxies for you,
Crackles in the fireplace
Join the chatter of gas pipes,
A grand symphony of all
Five elements lend you your
Vociferous eloquence
Tumi Bolo 5
Did you really say it
Or was the summer strong,
My imagination
Dashing? The universe
Is in neutral, neither
Moons of the month have said,
If you did, it was good,
Their silence deafens me
Laguna Beach
Dawn
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Khalil Gibran
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
........
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
a poem is the child of a poet..........we are only those stable bows, apparently
loved by God, according to Gibran. those poems don't belong to us, they
can be dedicated to our Awesome Muse, but they don't belong to them either,
they are " life's longing for itself" and they belong to the Universe. perfect
example of what Tagore wrote in Rajarshi about "nishkaam karma" (in other
words, perfectly useless work)
Mamma Mia
i miss Positano today.....i miss Positano often. Must be all the staring I did there from the balcony of my apartment.....looking out to the Mediterranean. one night a very impressive yacht came and they had a party on board. i really wanted to don my LBD and go and dance! i wonder what it is about Positano that I miss.....i had to climb 163 steps to get to my apartment three times a day and it was not fun to do that with groceries. neither was it fun to drive on the Amalfi coast. but seeing my daughter jump from the boat to swim in the Mediterranean on the way to Capri will remain an all time peak moment of my life. the water was so emerald.
i thought that i was going to write about living in Connecticut today but i'm now sure how i got to Italy. i started with the thought about the time i lived in a boat in Greenwich, Ct for 2 months....i was 22 then. i was thinking about Stamford, Ct, where i lived--that was when i learnt how to drive on the I-95. had my first accident on High Ridge Road, took the train to Manhattan to study French at the Alliance Francaise, had no money, no work permit, sold Avon, stared at 'Tavern on the Green' and promised myself that one day i'd have enough money to come and have dinner there, stood in line for half price tickets to Broadway shows, spend hours at NYC bookstores, skated in Rockefeller Center, pressed my nose against the glass windows of Bergdorf Goodman wondering who bought earrings for $525,000......i remember Mrs. Dvorak, who is probably dead, who gave me Coffee Cake when i brought her her Avon stuff, my Greek friend, with sumptuous hair, i remember my Avon route, it was like doing a paper route, and cooking, endless meals for no one in particular but just to experiment and create, Strawberry Hill, going to Westport and standing at the edge of Long Island Sound, getting fresh orange roughy early in the morning to be cooked with mustard and turmeric.....where are those happy days they seem so hard to find? what ever happend to our love i wish i understood? an Abba song....SOS.......that was then, this is now.....
so when you are near me darling, can't you hear me darling? SOS
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
To Sabyasachi and,
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Artanaad
Bogota
Khaniker Atithi (Guest For a Brief While)
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
The Dalai Lama's Laugh
First a poem
A Neck That Snapped
it could not be limestone, could not be metamorphosed,
the neck,
it had to speak for itself, and it spoke too roughly,
speaking strictly the cervical off its c axis
the neck,
spoke about brutality in the minds of all men,
the lack of love that the tsunami showed to everyone,
politics of sex and the dysfunction of pleasure,
the haze of alcohol that chilled very small children,
universal cries of unfairness and injustice;
chords of a piano strummed up and down the vocals
pianississimo, pianissimo, at first,
loud soft then, and then gorgeous, orgiastic screaming,
discs like keys, like twigs, bulged out of their resting coffins
the neck,
feathered a raven and kept death enclosed in a box,
for as long as it could but then could not anymore,
it had to speak of blood on a fallen woman's face,
it had to show up the face of a revolution,
the neck,
could not be allowed such self aggrandizement at all
the neck
had to lean forward as the spinal cord was attacked,
choked, and feel the consequence of paralysing quiet
8/4/2009
A poem dedicated to Neda Agha Soltan but only loosely so